


All Monsters Here

by PrioritiesSorted



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Allusion to Rape, Angst, F/M, this is essentially a combination of my love for Sansan and my hatred of Littlefinger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/pseuds/PrioritiesSorted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds her with a knife to Littlefinger's throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Monsters Here

**Author's Note:**

> So I was thinking about Littlefinger revenge fantasies, and I was thinking about how much I want Sansa to kill him, but also how much I don't want Sansa to kill him, and this just sort of fell out. 
> 
> The style is one I've never tried before, so please let me know if it works!

He finds her with a knife to Littlefinger's throat. 

It is not a classic picture; he is no knight, and the damsel has the monster against a wall. Perhaps they are all monsters here. 

She does not notice him at first, so fierce is the blue gaze that pins Petyr Baelish to the wall just as surely as the silver blade against his jugular. It is only when he speaks, his voice cracked and dusty from lack of use, that her eyes widen and dart across the room to where he stands. 

"Hello, Little Bird." 

She looks at him as she would a ghost; terror and revulsion twisting her features, marred only by a desperate longing that makes the hand holding her weapon tremble. 

"You are not real," she says, though uncertainty clouds her voice as she searches his face. Her eyes are not the same as they were in King's Landing; the blue is just as clear, the edges still fanned by thick lashes, but there is knowledge now where innocence once dwelled, and anger. 

"I dreamed of you. Every night I thought you had come to save me, to take me away like you promised you would. But you never came." 

"But I did, Little Bird; I am no dream now." 

She seems to smile for a half a second, but then her features harden again. 

"Good," she growls, turning her attention back to her former captor, "then you can watch me kill a monster. You held me back from the last one, will you grant me this at least? Or is your affinity with monsters still too strong?" 

He made no response, but Littlefinger, it seemed, could not remain silent.

"Monster is such an ugly word, sweetling-" He begins, but her grip tightens on the knife and he finds himself unable to continue.

"You think you have such a silver tongue," she hisses, "but it is flesh and blood like the rest of you, and it will not save you now."

Both men can only stare her; her wrath is godlike, but whether she is the Maiden or the Warrior neither can tell. Her hair is flame in the light of the setting sun (a glimpse of its true nature under the dull brown), so perhaps she is neither; she wants nothing but destruction here, and her rage burns like the fires of the Red God from across the sea.

She is flame made flesh, and thus she terrifies him. He does not flee, however; he has come far to find her, and he moves towards her with tentative steps.

"None of us are more than flesh and blood. What do you think will come pouring out when you slit his worthless throat? It will stain your pretty white dress, and your pretty white heart as well."

Her voice, when she replies, is hard and angry.

"What do you know of my heart? They say my mother's is stone, and I am so like her; am I not, Petyr?"

This time, Baelish makes no attempt at a reply; her knife is pressed hard to his throat, and blood has begun to trickle into the rich velvet of his jerkin.

Her chest rises and falls with the force of her breathing, and he can almost see the frantic beating of her heart; such sure signs of her life make a startling contrast with the white of her face, as pale as death.

"Perhaps you were, when she lived." He says, his body coiled and tense, unused to waiting where it was made for the chase and the kill, "But now she is dead, and her heart is also. But yours still beats against your chest, and it was not made for a thing such as this. You were made for sweetness, Little Bird, not bloodshed."

She smiles, then, and when she speaks her voice is far away,

"You told me once that killing is the sweetest thing there is. I think it would be sweet to kill him, so am I not made for it?"

His broad shoulders slump slightly, and he hangs his head as he whispers,

"But you are not me, are you? Perhaps it will be sweet for a second, but when the gush of his blood and his last gasps for breath make up all your dreams, when you close your eyes and see the life leave his, you will not think it so."

She does not move; the hand holding the knife still trembles, her jaw is still set in determination, but her angry eyes are glistening now, and tears begin to make red tracks down her pale face. When he speaks again, desperation strangles his words as he begs her,

"Do not let him ruin you."

She laughs, but it sounds like a death rattle,

"Are you really so naive? He did that long before you thought to play my saviour."

His hand twitches towards his weapon then, eyes hardening as he shifts his gaze from the girl to her former captor. He does not speak, but she continues; pitch and pace both rising as she spits out the words, her gaze now fixed on Baelish,

"They say my husband is a murderer and a whoremonger and worse besides, but he is a better man than you. You are no better than the monster you took me away from; at least he never hid it, not for long. You claim to have loved my mother, you claimed to care for me and still you... you would not... I _begged_ you..."

The dagger flashes red in the light of the setting sun; the reflections making patterns on the walls as she hurls it away.

Baelish gulps in a great breath, a victory smirk already blooming on his lips when he is pulled to his feet.

"My thanks, Hound. We may be monsters both, but I think we understand each other where she is concerned, do we not?"

His dirk is between Baelish's legs before he growls his answer,

"No."

A twist, a tug, and Petyr Baelish falls, gelded and gutted in one swift motion. He lets the corpse drop the ground, blood and entrails spilling onto stone, and crosses to where she still stands; the trembling has abated, and she is still now.

"It is done." He says, lifting one bloody hand to gently touch her face; she flinches and he makes to draw it back, but she grips his thick wrist with dainty fingers.

She makes no sound as she fits her cheek into his palm, letting out a shaking breath that neither seemed to realise she had been holding. It is only then that they really look at each other; the eyes of each roaming the other's face, one still as scarred as ever, the other just as delicate, just as beautiful. There is a difference in both, but neither can grasp it.

Eventually, he pulls his hand away; she lets it go reluctantly, strands of her hair sticking to the blood, clinging to him. She smiles then, letting them drop into her hand, scarlet lashes against white skin.

"Look," she says, "my hair is red again."

Something in him seems to break, then, and he pulls her into his embrace. He grasps her to him with a desperate strength as he whispers his promise into her dull brown tresses, 

"It will be, Little Bird, when we wash you clean again."


End file.
